


The Priority

by ThatSoChangeableChick



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, Loneliness, POV Female Character, Self-Worth Issues, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 03:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12522440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatSoChangeableChick/pseuds/ThatSoChangeableChick
Summary: Her priorities are a little different than others.Expert:"No offence but your hand looks like a mangled piece of shit," Jason offered.Last time Cassandra looked at it, it'd resembled a white-barked tree that'd survived a massacre, so that's a little better. Her boot nudged his ribs " – I want a milkshake."





	The Priority

**Author's Note:**

> Long time no see, sorry about that.  
> A lot has happened and this story came out of nowhere.  
> I started Uni, so I guess, I wanted to use what I've been learning.  
> Also, wanted to delve into the likely unhealthy mindset of vigilantes in Gotham, and I also sort of wanted an outlet for my S.A.D.  
> If anyone else here has S.A.D. then it shucks doesn't it?

It's an odd brand of loneliness. To be silent and watchful and never included. To be there and present and at home in the shadows of stranger's conversations. To wish to be more than a stranger, but unable to open that mouth hole that everyone else spews monologues from. It seems simple, to unhinge your jaw and speak but for the longest time, she couldn't do it.

Even now, with words in her head and comprehension in her mouth, it isn't simple. It is different though, to then before. Her loneliness these days are a product of habit and comfort, knowing that there is life and family in the large mansion on the outskirts of Gotham, doesn't necessarily mean she belongs there.

It doesn't mean she doesn't recognize the shadows of her former loneliness in someone else.

In time, she had learned the difference between loneliness and isolation. Loneliness is standing in a crowd, unable to connect and be _seen_. The loneliness leads to isolation, to finding out that you don't actually mind being all alone, to avoidance from anything precariously intimate. It's simple really, for a long time, you don't connect with another being and you begin to believe that it's not a hardship to live without it.

In fact, you're doing better now without decent human interaction then when you had it.

That thought it a lie. Though far worst than a lie, it is also an unknown fear, hidden in rationalized plain-sight. Fear makes people do foolish things. Cassandra has never been known for her fear. Her obtuseness to it, has been known, so Cassandra doesn't feel fear often.

Except now it's burning a track into her stomach, bile trapped with the breath in her throat. Her shoulders tremble beneath the weight of the world and trucks honk thousands of feet below, a faint wind licking the perspiration in her hands. The leather fabric slips further down and Cassandra lurched, a strangled grunt before she tightened her bloodied fist in the fabric.

Her brother hangs in the frigid wind, a _deadweight_ – the tv persona in her head depicts – and no, _no_. Her brother will live and he won't die, not by her weakness and never by anyone else's. The bones in her other hand are cramped and bloodied, distorted by the wire circling her knuckles and fingers so they both hadn't fallen to their deaths.

There is no one else who can save them. Over a hundred feet above the obnoxious stampede of inner-city life, in the frigid autumn weather and a dash of rain clouds overhead. The first droplets hit the sweat of her forehead and she muffled a sob, destined to hang forever until anyone looks upward and finds them.

Cassandra knows her limitations, knows she subsided them hours earlier after she'd become reigning Bat in Gotham for the past thirty-six hours. Back then it'd been simple, only Batwoman and Robin a call away. But her headpiece had dropped in the tumble that thrown herself and her brother off the helicopter.

Her attempts to lift higher had numbed her tangled hand, wormed into her shoulder where it settled, immovable. Her shoulder had locked, fractured at the angle and she didn't have the range of motion to snap it back.

It was ironic, to be trapped in the open air.

In the distance a helicopter circled the skies, either a future vulture or a benevolent angel. Her brother shuddered awake, "Stop!" Cassandra hissed before Jason jostled out from the sweat in her hand. He froze, shock and terror in the tremble of his hands and the stiffness of his back. He looked to find Cassandra, curled locks sticking to his temples.

He swallowed, "…the hell," his boots absently kicked the lights thousands of feet below before he stabilized on the sheer-drop windows. His brow furrowed, "Hold still." Cassandra swallowed down the choked huff. He delicately shifted and winced, sucking the blood on his lip. "This is going to hurt," he offered.

Cassandra accepted.

Jason wrapped a leathered hand around her wrist and clambered up her still form, the pressure snacked on her tied wrist but remained immovable. Cassandra remained immovable, except for the white-out pain and full-bodied shiver from an unknown chill. "…fuck," he mumbled, muffled by the pounding in her head and blurriness of her vision.

The flashing, honking lights below suddenly hidden behind a blood-splattered Kevlar.

Her head blared, " – bat! I need you to hold on, you hear me, hold on." It felt distance but Cassandra wrapped the hand that still felt over his broad shoulders, digging white fingers back into leather. In a somewhat hysterical mutter, there's a snap and burning relief in her hand and her stomach drops, flattens to meet her on the cold concrete.

Then, it snapped, a hiss to her hair, and lopsided swerve before they shattered on brittle, hard ground. Her brother grunted and rolled, heaved and choked as the world righted itself. Cassandra peeked out a lid and elbowed the ribs beneath her, toppling aside to reveal the darkened skies above and her brother's pained expression beside her. He didn't look like he should move for a while.

Her hand stabbed but without the added pressure it was simple to ignore, the limb cut off from her being and the polluted air in her lungs. Her shoulders flittered in phantom stabs so she focused, looked aside to find the brother she hadn't earned yet. "Thank you," Cassandra said. He didn't have to bring her to safety, it hadn't been his job and she hadn't earned that right.

He strangled a laugh, "Fuck you."

If she truly focused she could find two lone stars behind the voluminous clouds. It was obvious what must be done here, her injuries needed to be treated and Batman needed to be told of what occurred. Cassandra couldn't patrol like this, couldn't be for what she'd been created to be.

Instead Cassandra said, "Milkshake."

It was a tactic that had Stephanie's approval, after a hurt and pain was the best time for comfort and softness. Her lungs burned but the milkshake would help, "You broken or something?" Jason huffed, cheeks still flushed from exertion.

Cassandra leveled into a seated position and Jason grimaced, "I don't think you should be doing that." Definitely, a point there as Cassandra contemplated upchucking her dinner and passing out from torment and semi-blood-loss. It took a long, swaying moment longer but she'd stood to her feet, pleased to find solid ground. "No offence but your hand looks like a mangled piece of shit," Jason offered.

Last time Cassandra looked at it, it'd resembled a white-barked tree that'd survived a massacre, so that's a little better. Her boot nudged his ribs " – I want a milkshake," and he hissed in answer, hand spasming on the definitely broken rib.

"Fuck off."

He still didn't stand.

"I said 'fuck off', Goodie Ghoul Shoes."

He refused to look. It was avoidance and no, that was so bad. It was selfish but she didn't want loneliness, and – "I needed be there," it stuttered out, wrong from her mouth. He finally dropped the contempt and lingered on the pastiness of her features. "You could've…been gone, my brother, and I wouldn't have…wouldn't know. I want –" Cassandra shouldered a stray tear, the flash of torment stiffening her resolve.

Her brother was horrified.

Her mouth wobbled, "Milkshake. I want milkshake."

His answer shimmered in the balance until a negative twisted his mouth: "Fine." For being no less wounded, Cassandra breathed easier. He hadn't meant to do that. His features wiggled but he heaved to a stand, despondent and unimpressed but shucked into his pockets like it'd halt any further pain to his heart.

From there, Cassandra carefully descended the fire escape and with a put-upon exhale that hitched, her brother followed. Once the alleys defined, dangerous and desperate creatures scurried in the distance, she took the relative safety of the lamplights. In a particularly bright spot, Cassandra waited until her brother gruffly fell into step beside her.

There were no words in her mouth but the sickness of wounds was starved off by the fullness in her heart.

On the corner of seventh and Dexter there's a 24-hour diner, an array of breakfast meals beneath stark retro lights. It's not her favorite atmosphere but it's a welcome culture shock, after the darkness of outside. Like a different world to that they'd just experienced.

The doorbell clacked as she entered, holding it ajar for her brother, who hunched further into himself despite the torment that must entail. Inside, the windows are fogged and there's a lone cook behind the counter, stuttering to a halt in wiping down an already cleaned cup. Cassandra stepped right up to the bar, lifted two fingers of the hand-that-didn't-feel-death and said: "Two milkshake. One chocolate, one –"

Her brother stiffened at her look, shrugged it off: "Vanilla," he mumbled, headed off to squander a corner booth. Cassandra nodded and deposited a green note on the bar, before she slid in opposite her brother.

He was exhausted, sweaty debris circled his cheek and slashed his throat and a trickle of blood dried at his temple. Like a revolution, his shoulders unhunched and he slumped into the hard cushions, legs outstretched in optimal comfort. "You're odd, BB," he told the florescent light overhead.

Cassandra delicately set her mauled hand on the table and Jason grimaced, even as they both refused to acknowledge it. Their milkshakes arrived, alongside two others and a plate of large buttery cookies. Jason arched a brow and Cassandra shrugged. It is very possible she gave the cook far more than was necessary, it happened and as Black Bat, people tended to try and fill in the margins.

Her milkshake was cold and smooth and chocolatey. Exactly what the vigilante ordered. Her brother broke off a piece of a double chocolate cookie and watered it with his smoothie, humming a little under his breath. Once she'd picked at a white chocolate cookie, Jason's head tilted: "You should really get that checked."

It was in reference to her hand but it didn't feel like it, like he'd decided to direct that question at the reason Cassandra decided to sit here with her brother, instead of treat a debilitating-for-some wound. By her estimates she had another hour before the nerves in her hands were destroyed beyond all repair, until then, this was more important.

Cassandra placated that question by sliding her chocolate milkshake over and her brother shot her a look, like it was cute she thought that'd work but still took a large slurp. "Chocolatey," he offered and Cassandra importantly nodded. He slid a vanilla milkshake forward and she took a slurp, too sweet but good.

It was simple to ignore the cook, circling by the counter, acting unawares and still hyper-alert. Once their milkshakes had dwindled and the cookies crumpled, her brother exhaled and glanced out the foggy windows. The blurriness in her vision somewhat hid his expression but he felt introspective and pensive.

That was until his sights forcefully converged with her mangled hand, "Take it from the walking-corpse. You're going to kill yourself like that." It had been shot like an attack, only softened by the reek of concern. Cassandra loudly slurped the last of her milkshake. He rolled his eyes and exhaled. "Look –"

And, it sounded familiar, a triad of concern about to be spewed and that wasn't the point of this.

"You like books," Cassandra declared. He spluttered to a halt and scowled, "You will read to me."

"The fuck –" Once again, it sputtered into frustration. "You're delusional. I can literally see the marrow of your bones, _little sis_ , you need to get checked –"

Her shoulder had caught the tingled burns of her hand. "Fine. If I go, you go." This is her compromise, or was demand a better term? Because Cassandra refused, outright-refused to enable that isolation that left her brother alone in the world. No. He deserved to not be isolated. If he didn't want her, fine, but he'd take Alfred. From what she'd heard, he'd have to take Alfred.

And, Alfred could be trusted. To battle and persevere, against that isolation.

Her brother wallowed in disdain, twisted it into nastiness before it settled in a gritted smile, "…where to, _sis_?" It sounded mocking but felt like an acquisition, which she didn't mind all that much.

"Alfred."

Her brother finally deflated, "…fuck."

It was quiet for a while, except for the squeak as Jason picked at the hard cushion by his thigh.

He shook his head and settled: "You are a terror."

Her priorities might be oddly favored but they mattered, and if they were no one else's priorities, all the better to be hers; all the better to sneak-in unawares to receive what was needed. Her brother snuck the final cookie and slid out the booth, head tilted for the door.

Cassandra bared her teeth and grinned.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think of this new style ~*~*~~~*


End file.
